


Room In His Heart

by Dreamin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Crossover, Drunk Sex, F/M, Granada Sherlolly, Masturbation, Matchmaking, Modernized Granada Sherlock in the BBC Sherlock world, No John Watson, Older Man/Younger Woman, Phone Sex, Pre-Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25911043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamin/pseuds/Dreamin
Summary: Martha's convinced her reclusive tenant needs a flatmate, if not a girlfriend. Enter one Molly Hooper.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 92
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



>   
> 
> 
> Okay, so this scenario is the opposite of my usual Granada Sherlolly fics -- this time, Sherlock is in Molly's world. There's no John in this story since I wanted to show how Sherlock would have been if he'd never met Watson. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the BBC versions. (I had to slip in a reference to the fact that Lestrade's name is pronounced differently in each show.)
> 
> Just like in my other Granada Sherlolly fics, Sherlock is 50 and Molly is 30, but of course an age difference of 20 years is a much bigger deal these days and I'll try to show that.

Martha Hudson turned off the vacuum then took off her noise-cancelling headphones, the near-constant violin music coming from upstairs and the sound of someone knocking on the front door filling her ears. _Dear God, please let that be a client..._ When she opened the door and saw DI Lestrade standing there, she sighed in relief. “He’ll be glad to see you, Inspector,” she said as she let him in.

“Shooting up your walls again, Mrs. Hudson?” Lestrade asked, grinning.

“Not this time, it’s my ears that are taking a pounding.”

He took a moment to listen to the music. “Right. I’ve got something that’ll cheer him up.”

“I hope it’s a nice, complicated murder, he’ll like that. Anything to get him out of the house!”

His grin widened. “Leave it to me, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted over the music, mispronouncing his name, as always. “I don’t have all day!”

Martha smirked. “He does, though. I’ll make you both some tea.”

Greg grinned. “Thanks.” He headed up the stairs.

* * *

Greg sipped his tea and nibbled on a biscuit as Sherlock sorted through the details in his head, his hands together almost as if he were praying, and his eyes closed. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked at Greg.

“Was there a laundry chute in the bedroom?”

Greg checked his notebook. “Yeah, why?”

“In the laundry room, you should find the gun Mason used on himself, tied with a length of rope to a heavy weight.”

He stared at “the world’s only consulting detective” in utter disbelief. “Now hang on, Mason was murdered-”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock said, smirking, “he wanted the world to think he was murdered, and to lay the blame on Roscoe, his business rival, but in truth, it was suicide.”

“You’re sure about this?” Greg asked, though he knew his doubts were already growing smaller by the moment.

“Of course. Check the laundry room, and also the man’s hands if you don’t believe me – you should find the gun smoke residue that was ‘mysteriously’ missing from Roscoe’s hands.”

Muttering a curse under his breath, Greg got up. _I’m sure he’s right. He’s always right, the bastard._ “And here I thought it was a 7 at least.”

“A three at most, mere child’s play.” Sherlock dismissed him with an absent wave.

“Mrs. Hudson will be disappointed – she wanted you to actually leave your flat.”

“I’ll leave Baker Street when you bring me a case that warrants it, Inspector.” He got up and went back to his violin.

Greg rolled his eyes as he left the sitting room. As soon as Sherlock played the opening notes of whatever classical piece it was, Greg heard Mrs. Hudson say, “Bloody hell, not again…” from the ground floor. He chuckled to himself as he walked downstairs.

* * *

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Beth,” Martha said miserably as she played with the chef’s salad in front of her.

Bethany Turner, her best friend, next-door neighbor, and fellow landlady, reached around her own tuna melt to pat Martha’s hand in sympathy. “There, there, Martha. He can’t be that bad.”

“He’s driving me up the wall. If he’s not playing that damn violin incessantly, he’s shooting ‘E II R’ into my walls, and if he’s not doing either of those, he’s smoking like it’s going out of style.”

“But it is,” Beth said, smirking.

Martha rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean, Bethany.” She sighed quietly. “I can’t remember the last time he had a really good case to get him out of his flat.”

“If work won’t do it, how ‘bout a date?”

She burst out laughing. “A date? Sherlock Holmes?” She laughed again. “He’s been my tenant for five years now and I’ve never seen him go on a date.”

“Not interested?”

Martha shrugged. “Maybe? Probably? He’s always saying how love would interfere with his thought processes.”

“Now that’s a load of bunk.” Bethany grinned suddenly. “I know! Find another tenant. The worst that could happen is that you have two ornery tenants.”

Martha thought it over. “I don’t need the money, but if I can find someone who’ll get Sherlock to act more like a human being, it’d be worth the effort.”

* * *

Her ad was up for a week before she talked to a prospective client that seemed right for the situation. In fact, Molly Hooper was perfect – a cheerful pathologist from St. Bartholomew’s hospital.

_I think Sherlock’s even worked with her before. She’s a little young for him, but what’s twenty years? My first husband- no, bad example. Well, I’ll give it a go. What could go wrong?_


	2. Chapter 2

Molly second-guessed herself the entire cab ride to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had invited her over to look at the flat and “have a word or two” with Sherlock. She groaned inwardly. _God, what was I thinking? The only times he ever says a civil word to me are when I’m giving him the results of a postmortem or a test, and now I might be sharing a flat with him?_ _But I can’t do these long commutes every day and there isn’t another flat available in my price range._

As soon as she knocked on the front door, it was opened by a beaming Mrs. Hudson. “There you are, Dr. Hooper.”

Molly couldn’t help smiling back. “Please, call me Molly.”

“Of course, dear. You can call me Mrs. Hudson or Martha, whichever you prefer.” She led the way upstairs to the first floor. “Sherlock left on a case twenty minutes ago, I never know when he’ll be back. I wanted you to talk to him before you agreed to take the flat but I suppose that’ll have to wait.”

Martha showed her the cluttered sitting room, the kitchen full of experiments (some of which smelled like they’d gone off), the bathroom with its larger-than-expected tub, and then upstairs to the bedroom. The room was about the size of the one Molly had in her flat, plenty of room for her queen bed, and the closet was more than big enough for her admittedly small wardrobe.

“What do you think?” Martha asked eagerly. “I promise to have the kitchen cleaned up before you move in.”

_As if that were the biggest obstacle._ She sighed inwardly. “It’s a very nice flat, it’s just-”

“You’re not so sure about Sherlock,” Martha said knowingly.

Molly shrugged helplessly. “We work together. I do postmortems on his Scotland Yard cases.”

The older woman smiled sympathetically. “Then you already know what he’s like.”

“Yes but dealing with him in the morgue or the path lab a couple of times a week or whatever is not the same as dealing with him every day.”

“True, but maybe you can change him.”

Molly huffed out a quiet laugh. “Nothing and no one can change Sherlock Holmes.” After considering the pros and cons for a moment, she made up her mind. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

It was nearly a week before Sherlock was able to return to Baker Street, the case having taken him to Scotland. Mrs. Hudson had texted him that Molly Hooper had accepted the flat and was moving in. The kitchen had been cleared out and sanitized, all of his experiments thrown out. That rankled, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

He only hoped that Molly showed her usual good sense and stayed out of his way.

As soon as he walked into the sitting room, he noted all the differences, the main one being Molly herself lounging on the couch as she read a scientific journal. “Molly,” he muttered in acknowledgement as he headed for the fireplace and his pipe.

“You won’t find them there, Sherlock,” she said conversationally just as he realized she was right – his assorted pipes, the old Persian slipper with a pack of cigarettes hiding in it, all of it was gone. He turned towards her and his confusion must have shown on his face.

“They’re in your room,” she explained patiently. “I’m sorry but I’m sensitive to tobacco smoke – you’ll have to either smoke in your room or outside.”

“I … see.” _As I hate the outdoors, my bedroom it is, then._ He was about to fetch his pipe when Molly got up, grabbed something from the coffee table, and approached him.

“Here,” she said, holding out a notebook. “I wrote down everything I observed about your experiments before Mrs. Hudson threw them out. I’m not sure what results you were looking for, but I hope you can get something out of my notes.”

He stared at her for a heartbeat then accepted the notebook and began to flip through it. Her open, flowing handwriting was easy to read, not unlike the woman herself. _Eager to help, but then I already knew that._ Not bothering to thank her, he sat down in his black leather chair by the fire and started to read her comprehensive notes thoroughly.

By the time he was done, he looked up to see a cup of tea on the small octagonal table beside his chair. Molly herself was back on the couch, this time with a laptop she was engrossed in and her own cup of tea.

_Perhaps this situation will work out after all._


	3. Chapter 3

That night, Molly woke up to the sound of someone playing a violin. _No, not someone – Sherlock, but his name’s going to be Mud if he doesn’t stop._ She got out of bed, pulled on her robe, then headed downstairs.

Sure enough, Sherlock was playing his Stradivarius by one window, his back to her.

_He sleeps for fourteen hours then decides it’s time for a concert? I don’t think so._ She stormed over to him. “Sherlock, it’s four in the morning.”

“I’m well aware of the time, Molly,” he muttered as he continued to play, his eyes on the sheet music on the stand in front of him.

“Yeah? Well, some of us have to get up in two hours. Put it away.”

He ended the tune with a flourish and just as Molly was about to leave the room, he started another.

“Sherlock! Please, stop!”

“I suggest you do as Mrs. Hudson has done and invest in a good pair of earplugs,” he said calmly above the music. “Off you go, Molly. I play to sort out my thoughts and you are interfering.”

_I’d throw a pillow at him but that Stradivarius is worth a fortune and I have a lot more respect for it than him at the moment._ She considered going back to bed and trying to sleep but decided continued interference would be a lot more satisfying. To that end, she went into the kitchen, made herself a cup of herbal tea, then carried it back to the sitting room and sat down at the table, facing him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, though his eyes were still on the sheet music. “Your attempt to distract me is not going to work.”

She smiled a bit. “Who’s distracting? If I’m getting a free 4 AM concert, I might as well enjoy it.” _And he does play beautifully._ After a few minutes of listening to him while she sipped her tea, she decided to look up Stradivarius violins. Sherlock only glanced her way when she got up to retrieve her laptop from the coffee table but his eyes were back on the music when she sat down at the table again.

One quick Wikipedia search later and Molly had a question. “Which Stradivarius is that?”

Sherlock smiled a bit. “Its sobriquet is Huggins, after the English astronomer who owned it from 1880 to 1910.”

A Google search brought up the violin’s entry. “I take it you’re the ‘private collector’ who bought it in 1995.”

“Yes – it went up for auction just as I had solved a run of top-secret cases for high profile clients, so I could afford it. I knew an instrument as fine as this wasn’t likely to be available again for some time.”

She nodded then stifled a yawn.

Sherlock stopped playing in the middle of the tune then set the violin and bow down gently. “Go to bed, Molly. My playing can wait until a ‘decent’ hour.” At her surprised look, he smiled a bit. “After all, I’ll need my pathologist in top form if there’s a case.”

Molly rolled her eyes but finished her tea and got up. “Right. I’m not ‘your’ pathologist, you know.”

“You’re the only competent one at Bart’s, therefore you’re the only one I’m willing to work with.”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “I’m also the only one who’ll put up with you.”

He flashed her a grin. “That too. Goodnight, Molly.” He glanced out the window. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

“Right. Goodnight, Sherlock.” She paused then grinned at the violin. “Goodnight, Huggins.” Sherlock’s chuckle followed her upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Huggins](https://www.nmf.or.jp/english/instruments/post_279.html) is a real Stradivarius violin. I just couldn't resist the idea of Sherlock owning a violin that shares Jeremy Brett's birth surname.


	4. Chapter 4

After Molly went back to bed, Sherlock tried to find something quiet to do. Checking his email for new cases only took a moment – there were nothing above a 2. Desperate for something to end the boredom, he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown and sent a text to his brother.

**I don’t suppose you have an INTERESTING case for me. S**

Mycroft’s response came almost immediately. **That depends – how desperate are you? M**

_He’s not sleeping either. Too bad, I wanted to wake him._ **I’ll take anything above a 5, but an 8 would be preferable. S**

**If I had something that challenging, I’d consider solving it myself. M**

Sherlock smirked. **You wouldn’t take on any case that requires legwork. S**

**True. Has Dr. Hooper run screaming from Baker Street yet? M**

He rolled his eyes. _Telling Mycroft about Molly moving in was a mistake._ **Not yet. S**

**There’s a world of information in those two words. What did you do, Sherlock? M**

He sighed quietly. **Nothing my older brother needs to apologize for. S**

**While that’s certainly a relief, it does leave any number of possibilities. M**

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. **If you must know, I played my violin while she was sleeping. S**

**Did you know she was sleeping? M**

**I assumed she was. I had just woken up myself. S**

**You really shouldn’t have allowed Mrs. Hudson to take on a second tenant – you lack the temperament for flat-sharing. M**

**It’s her house. S**

**Then you’ll have to either make do or move out. M**

**Or I could simply ignore Molly and not change a thing. S**

**I doubt Dr. Hooper will put up with that for long. M**

**Then perhaps her moving out would be best for both of us. S**

The conversation with his brother turned to politics and Sherlock was so absorbed by his brother’s complaints about both parties that he didn’t realize Molly was awake until she walked into the sitting room in her robe, a towel wrapped around her long hair. As she passed him, he could smell her vanilla sugar bodywash.

_It suits her._

“Morning, Sherlock,” she mumbled as she walked into the kitchen, yawning.

He couldn’t help a slight smile at that. _It would seem my flatmate isn’t a morning person._

“I take it you haven’t had breakfast,” she said while she made coffee in the Keurig she’d brought with her when she had moved in.

“Not yet.”

She filled a mug with coffee then set it aside. “That one’s yours, you can fix it however you want.”

Curious, he walked into the kitchen just as she started making her own coffee. She raised an eyebrow at the large amounts of cream and sugar he put into his coffee but didn’t say anything. Instead, she set her mug down, unwrapped the towel from her hair, then hung it around her neck.

Sherlock noted the strawberry scent that lingered from her shampoo. “Do you always shower in the morning?” _I might as well learn her routine while she’s here._

“Only if I was off the day before and didn’t go anywhere. I take a shower at Bart’s after my shift if I did any autopsies, but if it’s a slow day, I save the shower for just before bed.” She got started on breakfast – four slices of bread went into the toaster, then she started frying two eggs.

“That’s not necessary,” Sherlock protested mildly. “I don’t eat more than toast and coffee at breakfast.”

Molly smiled a bit. “Who said the eggs are for you?”

“Ah.” He buttered all four slices of toast then left two on a plate for Molly before taking the other two on a plate and his coffee over to the kitchen table, which was currently free of experiments, not that he expected it to remain that way forever. _I need a place to work, after all._

Molly soon sat down across from him with her own breakfast. After her first few sips of coffee, she pulled her phone out of the pocket of her robe and scrolled through it for a moment then looked at him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Far be it from me to stop someone from doing something I do all the time. I’d do it right now but I already know there’s nothing interesting going on anywhere.”

She groaned quietly then started on her eggs. “I really hope you have a case soon – you’re a menace when you’re bored for too long.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should accompany you to Bart’s, then. At least a few experiments would give me something to do.”

Molly smiled a bit. “Only if you promise to behave yourself. No nicking body parts behind my back.”

Sherlock grinned. “You have my word.” Underneath the table, his fingers were crossed.


	5. Chapter 5

After breakfast, Molly went back upstairs to dress and fix her hair. Water rushed noisily through the pipes below her room and she knew it was the sound of Sherlock taking a shower. Her unhelpful mind conjured an image of the attractive detective naked and dripping wet but she shoved it aside.

_It’s just my overactive imagination and the fact that I’m going through a dry spell right now. Okay, a big dry spell. Besides, he’s not my type. Yes, he’s intelligent, talented, handsome, and his voice is so deep and lovely, but I hate arrogance and vanity and he’s got both in spades. Not to mention the fact that he has few if any social skills. And then there’s his age – he’s only fifteen years younger than my father._

She sighed quietly as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. _Of course, the question is what do I do about Sherlock if I do end my dry spell? I can’t ask my flatmate to spend the night elsewhere if I want to bring a date home, can I? No, it would be too awkward, I’ll just get a hotel room._

Another image came to mind, this one of her bringing some random guy home for dinner and Sherlock deducing something embarrassing about the man, making him leave. _Oh, he’d better not try something like that, I’d kill him. We need to set boundaries._

She headed back downstairs, reaching the first floor just as Sherlock was walking out of his bedroom. Molly’s libido was wide awake when she saw what he was wearing – a light gray three-piece suit and a white dress shirt. Like all of his suits, it was expertly tailored. The shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and there was no tie – Sherlock only wore ties when the situation demanded it. All in all, he looked damn good. When he saw her and smirked, she knew he’d caught her staring.

She blushed. “Ready to go?” she asked as she ducked into the sitting room to grab the tote bag that doubled as her everyday purse.

“Quite,” he said, still smirking when she came back out. “I checked – no new cases.” He followed her down the stairs.

“You know,” she said, smiling a bit, “most people would consider a drop in crime a good thing.”

“Yes, but we’re not most people, are we?” The grin in his audible in his voice.

She couldn’t help grinning herself. “No, we’re definitely not.”

Mrs. Hudson met them at the foot of the stairs, smiling delightedly. “You have a case, Sherlock?”

“Not yet,” he admitted, “but Molly has agreed to let me experiment at Bart’s until one presents itself.”

“Thank God,” Mrs. Hudson muttered, then she shot Molly a sympathetic smile. “If he gets on your nerves, you have my permission to throw him out.”

Molly grinned cheekily. “Of the flat or just at Bart’s?”

Sherlock barked out a sarcastic laugh but Mrs. Hudson simply grinned. “Have fun, you two.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” she said. “Have a good day, see you tonight.”

She walked out the front door, Sherlock only pausing long enough to grab his walking stick from the umbrella holder beside the door before following her. He hailed a cab then held the door open for her as she got in then he got in beside her.

They were halfway to Bart’s before she asked, grinning, “I have to ask – is there a sword in there?”

Sherlock smirked then picked up the walking stick from where it lay across his lap. It was three feet long, made of black wood but she wasn’t sure if it was stained or natural, with a brass cap at the foot and an ornate silver knob at the other end. Holding the mid-point of the stick with one hand, he gave the knob a slight twist with the other then pulled, revealing the first few inches of a narrow sword blade.

“Nice,” she said approvingly. “Have you ever used it?”

“Only to intimidate,” he said, smiling a bit as he replaced the sword. “Most unarmed would-be assailants change their mind when they see a bladed weapon. The stick as a whole is much more useful to me, though – I have no need for a mobility aid but this has any number of applications.”

Molly amused herself with the thought of Sherlock tripping a suspect with it while they tried to get away. “Right.”

Once they were inside the path lab, Sherlock settled at his favorite microscope (which happened to be the one next to hers) with some hair samples he’d brought with him. Every time he bent over the microscope, his hair fell onto his face and Molly’s fingers itched to brush it back.

She shook her head a bit. _Ugh, I need to stop this... Sherlock’s my … well, “friend” probably isn’t the right word, but “flatmate” definitely is, and I’m not about to get romantically involved with the man. I mean, what if we break up? We’d still have to share the flat and that just wouldn’t work._

_It can’t hurt to just look,_ her naughty side reminded her. _He already knows you were looking before._

_Fine – I’ll look, but I certainly won’t touch._


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was so absorbed in his various experiments that he didn’t realize Molly had left for lunch and come back until he looked up from the microscope to find a waxed paper-wrapped tuna sandwich next to him and the pathologist herself making notes on a clipboard on the far side of the lab.

His stomach reminded him that it had been hours since breakfast, so he got up then carried the wrapped sandwich over to where Molly stood. The deductions came freely. “The canteen wasn’t serving anything that was both hot and edible and your friend Meena only wanted to talk about her new boyfriend, thus you bought sandwiches for me and yourself.”

“Got it in one,” she said, her eyes still on the clipboard, then she looked at him. “I tried to get you to take a break but you didn’t even look up.”

“I was lost in thought.”

“You always are,” she said, but there was no criticism in her tone. “C’mon.” She led him to her minuscule office next to the path lab, where her sandwich and two bottled waters waited on her desk.

Sherlock waited until she had sat down in her chair behind the desk before he sat down at the chair in front of it. They ate in silence, Molly’s attention focused on her phone and his attention focused on her.

_She’s the only person I know who goes out of their way to be nice without any expectation of friendliness or even gratitude in return. What does she get from it, then?_

“You’re staring,” she said, not looking up from her phone, her cheeks slightly pink.

He smirked. “And you’re ignoring me.”

Molly grinned at him. “A high crime in Sherlock Holmes’ world, I know. God forbid anyone have anything to do besides entertain you.”

“I would expect that someone like you would at least attempt to be pleasant company,” he said, smirking. It was an attempt at levity but Molly’s smile faltered for a moment before coming back full-force without reaching her eyes.

She glanced at her watch. “I should go, I have a meeting.” She wrapped up her half-eaten sandwich then grabbed it and rose, leaving her office in a hurry before Sherlock could stop her.

_What did I do wrong?_

Sherlock didn’t see her again for two hours. He was just recording his findings on his experiments with an octogenarian’s heart when Molly came back to the path lab.

She took one look at the cut-up heart on the tray next to him. “Sherlock, that better not be Mrs. Allen’s heart.” Her voice was tired and strained.

_I’d say it was a budget meeting but I looked at her desk calendar – she doesn’t have any meetings planned for today, so what is going on?_

“At least put it back where you got it when you’re done – she’s being cremated tomorrow and I’m sure her family would appreciate it if all of her was included.” She idly rubbed her forehead. “A body just came in and since you’re not really supposed to be in here by yourself-”

That caught his interest. “Did Lestrade accompany the body?”

“No, she was a patient here who didn’t make it and it’s my job to find out why. I’ll see you tonight.”

Sherlock knew a dismissal when he heard one. He got up and was about to leave when his mobile chirped. Pulling it out of his jacket pocket, he then read the text from Lestrade.

**Got something for you. Possible murder at a doss house but no body yet. GL**

Sherlock grinned. **My favorite – two things to find. What’s the address? SH**

He grabbed his walking stick and headed out the door as he waited for Lestrade’s text. The one that came next though, wasn’t from him.

**Sherlock, I told you to put the heart back, not leave it on the table. Molly**

**No time, Lestrade has a case for me. SH**

**I guess I won’t expect you at dinner, then. Molly**

He wondered why he felt both guilty and disappointed. _I never eat when I’m on a case, why would this be any different?_


	7. Chapter 7

For the next week, the only way Molly could tell she had a flatmate was the sound of the shower running every night as she was getting ready for bed. Since she’d had to work a double shift twice that week and Sherlock still seemed to know when she was going to bed, she suspected Mrs. Hudson was helping him avoid her.

To that end, she spent Saturday morning making a spice cake then she took it downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. The older woman looked up from cleaning her breakfast dishes and smiled at her.

“Hello, Molly. What’s that you have there?”

Molly smiled back. “Hi, Mrs. Hudson. A spice cake. It’s my day off and I thought maybe you and I could have a chat.”

Martha chuckled. “I had a feeling this day was coming. I’ll put on the kettle.”

Once they were both settled at the kitchen table with their tea and cake, Molly decided not to beat around the bush. “Are you telling Sherlock when it’s ‘safe’ to come home and shower?”

The landlady took the time to sip her tea but Molly knew what the answer would be by the blush on her cheeks and the mild guilt in her eyes. “It’s normal for him to be gone for days at a time if he’s on a case. If he’s still in London, he’ll come home once a day to shower and change, fastidious man that he is, but not to sleep. I’m surprised he hasn’t collapsed from exhaustion at a crime scene yet.” She hesitated. “He said he wanted to give you space, so I text him when I hear you going to bed.”

Molly sighed quietly, looking down at her hands wrapped around the warm teacup. “He said something the other day that hurt. I don’t know why I let it get to me, God knows he’s said worse, but it did.”

“It hurt because you want him to like you,” she said, smiling knowingly.

She shrugged nonchalantly but she could feel her cheeks starting to warm. “We’re flatmates, why shouldn’t I want him to like me?”

Martha smirked. “That’s not the way I meant.”

The sound of Sherlock in the hall spared her from having to reply. “Mrs. Hudson!” he called out.

“In here, dear!” she replied, grinning.

Before Molly had a chance to react, Sherlock appeared in the doorway. He wore black trousers with grey pinstripes, a white dress shirt, and a black waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his suit jacket was nowhere to be seen. Molly had a hard time drawing her gaze away from his forearms but when she did, she saw that he was staring at her.

“Molly … I didn’t know you were home.”

“It’s my day off,” she said, keeping her tone level. “You must want to talk to Mrs. Hudson, I should go…” She got up quickly then turned to Martha. “Thank you for the chat.”

The older woman’s grin widened, her eyes dancing. “Thank you for the cake.”

She tried to get past Sherlock without touching him or making eye contact but he gently grabbed her upper arm, stopping her. “Wait…”

Molly sighed quietly. “Whatever you have to say, Sherlock, can wait until after you’ve talked to Mrs. Hudson.”

“I was only going to ask her if she knew when you’d be home tonight.”

“Today’s my day off, so you can take your shower whenever and go back to the case.” She pulled her arm free then headed for the stairs, Sherlock on her heels.

“Molly…” He sighed heavily as he followed her upstairs. “The case is solved.”

“Congratulations,” she said flatly.

He caught her arm again on the landing then gently turned her to him. “Please, talk to me. I don’t know why what I said upset you. I tried asking Mrs. Hudson but she said only you can tell me.”

“You say you want an answer yet you avoided me all week,” Molly said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

“The case-”

She glared at him. “Don’t give me that – you could have phoned, texted, something.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You should know by now that when I’m on a case, I think of little else.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Molly muttered, dropping her gaze again, then she shrugged out of his hold and headed up to the first floor then into the sitting room, noting absently that his suit jacket was draped over the arm of his chair.

Sherlock followed her. “I can’t improve if I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Since when do you care about self-improvement?” she muttered as she walked into the kitchen.

“Since I suddenly found myself with a flatmate,” he said from the doorway. He must have seen the surprise she felt on her face. “To keep the peace, I must compromise to some degree.”

Molly went over to the refrigerator and opened it, needing some distance between them. “Did Mrs. Hudson tell you that?”

“Perhaps…” When she looked at him over her shoulder, he added, “I agree with her.” He paused. “She wants you to stay.”

She turned back to the fridge. “And what do you want?”

“At first, I’ll admit, I wanted nothing more than for you to leave.” There was a small amount of remorse in his tone, certainly more than she had ever heard from him before.

 _Still, he’s a better actor than some BAFTA winners._ Molly turned to him and asked warily, “And now?”

His expression could only be described as resigned. “Now, I want whatever you want.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Now, I want whatever you want.” Sherlock watched Molly carefully, looking for any clues as to what she was going to say next. _She’s on a precipice, she truly doesn’t know if she wants to leave or not._

Molly closed the refrigerator door then approached him slowly. “I want to stay, but I don’t know if I can stay somewhere I’m not respected.”

“Of course I respect you,” he said, truly offended that his intentions were that misunderstood.

“You respect me as a pathologist but not as a person. I don’t exist solely to give you results and be ‘pleasant company,’ Sherlock,” she said pointedly. “I’ve got enough people in my life telling me that’s all I’m good for – not intelligent, not talented, not pretty, just someone who makes good small talk but more importantly, knows when to shut my mouth and just listen. The last thing I need is to hear it from my flatmate too.”

Sherlock stared at her. “Hurting you was never my intention.”

“Yeah? Well, your sense of humor needs work,” she muttered, not meeting his eyes as she tried to brush past him.

He gently grabbed her upper arm, stopping her. “I want you to stay,” he murmured. “Please, Molly.” The truth surprised him at first but he quickly accepted it.

She sighed heavily then looked up at him. “No more jokes, Sherlock. Not until you know me better.”

The look in her eyes was so vulnerable and sad that he was struck with a sudden urge to kiss her, which he promptly ignored. “Very well,” he said gently, removing his hand. “Then, you’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay, but we need to establish boundaries.”

Sherlock nodded. “No jokes, no playing the violin while you’re asleep.”

“No leaving a mess in the path lab. We can figure out the rest later.” She sounded emotionally exhausted.

_Before she moved in, I doubt I would have even noticed. But now, I feel I should do something since her current state is no one’s fault but my own._ “Go sit down,” he said gently. “And put your feet up. You’ve had a long week, it’s time to relax.”

Molly raised an eyebrow as she assessed him for a moment then she nodded. “Alright.” She walked into the sitting room.

Sherlock busied himself with making lunch. After a week of hardly eating and barely sleeping because of the case, he was physically exhausted and starving, but he wanted to take care of Molly first. When everything was done, he put all of it on a tray then carried it into the sitting room.

Just as he thought, Molly was stretched out on the couch, reading something on her laptop. She was grinning, but that wasn’t a clue as to what she was reading. _Could be a Wikipedia entry about an interesting death, could be_ Glee _fanfiction._ Still, he couldn’t help grinning too as he set the tray on the coffee table.

Molly looked up from her laptop and stared at the tray. “Sherlock … how did you know a cheese toastie and tomato soup are my favorite comfort foods?”

He smirked. “You brought a toastie maker with you when you moved in, not to mention the soup. It wasn’t hard to deduce.”

She moved her feet to the floor, freeing up the rest of the couch, then patted the space next to her. Sherlock chuckled as he moved around the coffee table then sat down.

Molly softly kissed his cheek then murmured, “Thank you. I can’t remember the last time someone made this for me.”

He blinked in surprise then smiled a bit. “You’re welcome.”

“So,” she said, grinning, as she started on her toasty, “what’s your favorite comfort food?”

He started on his soup, giving himself time to think about it. “I don’t really have one.” His tone was somewhat apologetic, though he didn’t know why.

She looked surprised for a moment but then she grinned. “Don’t worry, we’ll find it. I love a challenge.”

Sherlock chuckled. “If I’ve lived this long without one, I think it’s safe to assume I don’t need one.”

“Everyone needs comfort food – something to eat when the weather’s bad-”

He smirked. “We’re in London, when is the weather not bad?”

“Or when you’ve had a bad day.”

“Such as when your flatmate is a complete arse?”

Molly smirked. “I wouldn’t say you’re a complete arse. More like half an arse.”

“Good to know.” He had an urge to kiss her again, specifically the dimples in her cheeks, but he held back. _She doesn’t need a man practically old enough to be her father making a move on her._ Still, the urge wouldn’t go away.

She glanced at her watch. “I have to watch my time, I’m meeting some of my friends for drinks tonight and knowing them, we’ll probably end up clubbing.”

The thought of Molly dancing with and even kissing some man at a club hit him like a bucket of cold water. _Serves you right – she’s not yours and she never will be._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating has gone up a little bit. Enjoy. ;)

Molly finished curling her hair then took one more look at herself in the mirror. The little black dress hugged her in all the right places, her push-up bra enhanced her curves just enough, and her four-inch heels did amazing things to her legs, in her opinion. _My feet will hurt like hell later tonight but a lazy Sunday off them will take care of that._

She grabbed her clutch purse then left the bathroom and followed the sound of Sherlock’s violin to the sitting room. He stopped playing as soon as he saw her, his mouth hanging open slightly.

Molly immediately became self-conscious. “Is it too much? I thought I looked good but does it look like I’m trying too hard? I’m not on the pull … though why I’m telling you this is beyond me.”

Sherlock turned away to set his violin and bow down. “It’s fine, Molly.” His tone was brusque.

_Shit, I’m embarrassing him, I know it._ “I should be home before two. Um, if you feel like eating, there’s a store-bought lasagna in the freezer. Just save me some, okay?” She didn’t give him a chance to reply before she headed for the door. “Bye, Sherlock.”

He didn’t respond. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

* * *

As soon as he saw Molly walk out the front door, Sherlock went to his bedroom and locked the doors. _Fifty years old and I’m as randy as a teenager. Why? Because Molly Hooper looks incredible when she’s going out on the town._ He laid down on the bed and stared sightlessly at the ceiling for a moment before carefully opening the fastenings of his bespoke trousers. He pushed them halfway down his thighs then slowly, carefully did the same with his grey silk boxers, his erection springing free.

He immediately wrapped one hand around it, images of Molly coming to mind effortlessly. _Molly in that little black dress but this time, she’s wearing it for me. Molly without the dress, just in a set of lacy black underthings._ _Molly in nothing at all._ He stroked himself throughout, his other hand coming to his mouth, his fist something to bite as the pleasure sharpened.

It was an image of Molly stretched out beneath him that sent him over the edge. Only cupping his free hand over the head kept him from making a mess of everything. He was wiping off his hand with a tissue from the nightstand when his phone rang.

* * *

“Oh, who’s _that_?” Meena purred beside her, her grin predatory.

Molly rolled her eyes. Her friend preferred style over substance and any attractive man was bound to catch her attention. _Catch but not keep, she really needs to raise her standards._ Still, curiosity compelled her to look.

The older gentleman heading their way was unmistakable. Still, Molly couldn’t remember seeing Sherlock in just trousers and a white dress shirt before. His hair looked like someone had run their fingers through it repeatedly, making her fingers itch to do the same, but it was the intensity of his gaze that really made her knees weak.

“Molly,” he said when he got close enough to be heard above the pounding music, “you must come with me. Lestrade is bringing a body to Bart’s.”

“Hold up,” Meena said, turning to Molly. “You know him?” _What else have you been hiding?_ was clear in her tone.

Molly sighed heavily. “Meena, this is my flatmate and colleague, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my friend, Meena Patel.”

Meena grinned. “Molly said she had a flatmate, she didn’t mention he was hot.”

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously and Molly took the hint. “I’d better go. I’ll call you, Meena.”

“You’d better,” she said, grinning.

Molly grabbed her bag and followed Sherlock out of the club and into the chilly night. _Summer is definitely ending._

He led the way to a waiting cab and once they were settled in the back, Molly checked her phone. Sure enough, there was a text from Lestrade. She looked at Sherlock. “This is my night off, you know.”

“I will not let some dunderhead do the postmortem just because you’re not scheduled to work.”

She rolled her eyes. “Those boundaries we talked about? Not making me come in on my days off is another one.”

“Duly noted,” he muttered.

Molly took another look at him, though it could properly be called drinking him in. She was no deductive genius, but she did get the occasional flash of inspiration. _He was interrupted when he got the call._ “Sherlock … were you with someone when Lestrade called you?”

“Of course not,” he said curtly, but he refused to meet her eyes.

_He’s lying, but why?_ “We’re both adults,” she said gently, “you can tell me.”

“I wasn’t with someone but I was preoccupied, let’s leave it at that.” His cheeks were faintly pink and Molly desperately wanted to know had happened.

_Maybe he’ll feel more like talking when we get home._


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock watched from the other side of the room as Molly performed the autopsy on the waterlogged corpse that had been pulled out of the Thames. She had changed into scrubs and athletic shoes when they arrived and her curled hair was now up in a ponytail. The swaying of it whenever she moved was mesmerizing, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

She was very methodical in her approach, as always, and while he admired it in a colleague, the part of his brain that apparently hadn’t left his bedroom wondered if she’d be as thorough figuring out what he liked. _I, of course, would show her the same care._ That, naturally, filled his head with more images and he felt himself reacting again. _I need to get out of here quickly before I embarrass myself._

“How much longer, Molly?” he asked, his irritation masking everything else his felt.

She rolled her eyes behind her safety mask. “Mr. Abernathy didn’t drown. From what I can tell, he was strangled then someone tore up his neck to cover it up. No idea what he was strangled with, though. I’ll examine his personal effects next.”

Sherlock nodded, seeing an excuse to escape. “Text me your findings. I’ll see what I can get out of his wife.”

“The spouse is always the first suspect,” she said absently as she started to stitch the Y incision closed. “One more reason why I’m glad I’m single.”

He wisely chose not to comment on that, despite the disappointment he felt, and instead headed for the door without saying goodbye.

After examining the man’s flat and car then talking to the man’s wife, Sherlock knew he’d solved the case. He pulled Lestrade aside. “Arrest the wife.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Just tell me, no need to make a big production of it.”

“Motive – infidelity. There was smeared lipstick on a napkin from beneath the front seat of his car that didn’t match any of his wife’s shades.”

“Uh huh,” Lestrade said as he wrote in his notebook. “I don’t suppose you’ve found a murder weapon.”

“I’m sure it went to the bottom of the Thames along with Abernathy, but I have reason to believe he was strangled with piano wire.”

“And Mrs. Abernathy tunes pianos for a living, nice. Okay, I’ll take it from here. Thanks, Sherlock.”

He nodded then checked his watch. “Molly should be back at Baker Street by now.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said absently, then he looked up at Sherlock. “Wait, ‘back at Baker Street?’ You’re living together? I didn’t even know you were dating.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We’re flatmates, nothing more.”

“Too bad, mate – she’s perfect for you.”

He stared at the slightly younger man but Lestrade just waved him off. “Go on, you’ve got some wooing to do.” He paused. “And don’t tell anyone I used that word, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Of course. Thank you, Lestrade,” he said on his way out the door, finally pronouncing the man’s surname correctly.

* * *

Molly had just poured herself another glass of wine from the bottle on the coffee table when Sherlock came into the sitting room. She grinned at him from where she sat on the couch, still in her dress from the club. “Hey, sexy. Did you catch the bad guy?”

He raised an eyebrow at her then at the wineglass in her hand. “And how many of those have you had?”

“This is my second, not counting the Old Fashioned I had at the club.” She took a sip then eyed him appreciatively. “God, you’re fit. I don’t know if it’s all the running around you do or the, you know, not eating, which is bad of course, but you should model or something. Hiding out here deprives the world of your…” She paused as she thought of the right term. “Masculine beauty, that’s it. The world needs to know.” Molly held up her wineglass. “Viva La Hotness!” She started giggling.

Sherlock rolled his eyes then sat down beside her and gently took the wineglass from her hand. “I’m cutting you off.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” she muttered, pouting.

“Yes, I am,” he protested gently, “if you’d just give me a chance.” He took a sip of her wine.

That meant something, she was sure of it, but it had a hard time getting through the alcohol fog in her brain. Molly gave up on figuring it out and instead focused on his presence. “You didn’t answer my question – did you catch the bad guy?”

“Bad girl and yes, Lestrade should have her at NSY by now.” He drank the rest of the glass quickly then poured himself another.

“The wife? Why is it always the spouse?”

“He was seeing another woman.”

“That’s a motive for divorce, not murder.” She leaned back against the couch, scowling. “All I see every day at work are the results of unhappy marriages. Nobody’s faithful, nobody can just talk it out, they hafta murder their spouse or get someone to do it for them. Ugh…” She leaned to rest her head on the arm. “I’m never getting married.”

“You’re far too young to give up on marriage, or anything else, Molly. You’re a young, beautiful, intelligent, and caring woman, and I will not have you hiding yourself away here either.” He laid a gentle hand on her bare shoulder.

She lifted her head just enough to look at him. “If I’m such a catch, how come you haven’t caught me yet?”


	11. Chapter 11

“If I’m such a catch, how come you haven’t caught me yet?”

Sherlock snatched his hand back as if her soft, warm skin had burned it. _There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to get me to answer that question honestly,_ he thought as he tossed back the wine then poured yet another glass. “You’re not my type.” It was a lie, a huge one, and he prayed she was drunk enough to buy it.

“Bullshit.”

_So much for that._

“It’s my tits, isn’t it?” she said sadly as she sat up, then she looked down at herself. “I have to wear push-up bras just to get men to even notice me.” She laid her head on the arm again, her eyes shut.

He sighed inwardly as he took another sip of wine. “When I called you beautiful, Margaret Anne Hooper, I meant all of you. And frankly, those bras are gilding the lily – your breasts are beautiful on their own, they need no enhancements.”

She sat up again so quickly he wondered if her head was spinning then she stared at him. “How … how do you know? You’ve never seen them. And I never told you my full name.”

Sherlock focused on anything but her. “It’s on your Bart’s ID.” He finished the rest of the glass before continuing. “As for your breasts, I’ve seen you in a t-shirt without a bra. My imagination fills in the rest.”

He was about to pour another glass when Molly took the bottle away. “No more drinking, you’re going to explain, now.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “You’re a grown woman, Molly – I’m sure you can figure it out.” He got up and walked to the kitchen.

She followed him after a moment. “Sherlock Holmes, you’re telling me I’m in your wank bank?”

He rolled his eyes. “If we’re going to be crude about it, you’re my entire wank bank.”

He was about to escape to his bedroom when Molly moved around him and stood in front of the door, blocking his path. “No running, you’re going to tell me exactly how long mmph!”

Sherlock roughly pulled her to him and cut off her words with a kiss. She kissed him back immediately, her arms wrapping around his neck. _It’s the alcohol. It’s the alcohol. It’s the alcohol. Fuck it. We’ve both had enough that we’re willing, but not so much that we can’t give proper consent. Speaking of…_ He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. “Do you have any objections to us having sex?”

She grinned at him. “None whatsoever.” She paused. “I’m clean and I’m on the Pill.”

“I’m clean as well. I can provide the paperwork if you need it-”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He grinned and did exactly that.

* * *

Molly knew she was risking everything – their friendship, sharing a flat, even being able to work together – but at that moment, she absolutely could not find it within herself to care. She wanted him, he wanted her, and she was going to have him. After being thoroughly snogged by the man, she pulled him back into the sitting room and over to his chair. Sherlock seemed to have no objections and they were soon too busy getting themselves and each other out of their clothes to say much of anything.

He pulled her against his long, lean, naked body. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her neck. “Exquisite. Stunning.”

She sighed, practically melting in his arms. “You’re incredible.”

He chuckled. “For fifty?”

“For any age,” she murmured. “If I wanted a thirtysomething guy, I could’ve picked one up at the club.” She took his face in her hands and gazed at him. “But I don’t, I want you, Sherlock.” The vulnerability in his eyes drew her in but she decided it was the alcohol. She mentally shook it off then grinned at him. “Sit.”

Sherlock grinned back at her as he sat down. “Perhaps I should tell you now that I prefer to be the dominant one.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, smirking, as she straddled his lap. “I haven’t seen any of that so far.” She wrapped one hand around his long, thick shaft, keeping her other hand on his shoulder for balance. “In fact, I’d say you’re putty in my hands.”

She started to stroke him and he made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “God, Molly…” Keeping one hand at her waist, he slipped the other between her legs, finding her clit with ease and stroking it expertly while one long, thin finger explored her. “You’re dripping…”

“I can’t remember the last time I was this wet,” she murmured before kissing him deeply.

He returned her kiss, both of them sighing as he slid first one, then two fingers inside her. She let go of his cock to brace herself with both hands on his shoulders as he stroked her to the most intense orgasm she’d had in far too long. When she came back to herself, Sherlock was grinning at her wickedly.

“Enjoyed that, did you?”

Molly laughed weakly. “Um, yeah, obviously…”

He chuckled but that soon stopped when she took him in hand then slowly lowered herself onto his cock. As wet as she was, she had to go slowly – Sherlock was easily the most well-endowed man she’d ever been with. He held her hips as she sank onto him, his eyes never leaving hers. She tried to say something but when she opened her mouth, all she could do was moan.

“For me too, love,” he murmured. “You feel indescribably good…”

She deliberately ignored the endearment. _It’s just the alcohol talking._ Once he was finally, fully seated, she laid her head on his shoulder and he held her close. She couldn’t resist leaving soft, light kisses on his collarbone and neck.

Sherlock chuckled. “A butterfly, is that what you are?” he murmured.

Molly grinned to herself then lightly nipped his neck, making him jump slightly.

“A honeybee, then,” he murmured, amused. “Have I told you I love bees?”

_That word again._ “No, you haven’t,” she murmured.

“Mmm.”

Once she felt fully relaxed around him, she started to move, slowly at first. Sherlock held her hips as he lifted his to meet hers. Their gazes locked and she wanted the moment to last. _Just the two of us, connected, making each other feel so much pleasure. Why can’t it be like this forever?_

He lowered his head to kiss her neck then murmured against her skin, “Faster, darling?”

She ignored that endearment too as she rode him faster, feeling another orgasm build.

“That’s it, love,” Sherlock murmured, one hand moving between them to stroke her clit.

Molly came so hard she saw stars, her loud moan nearly drowning out Sherlock’s gasp as his seed filled her. He pressed his forehead against hers, both of them breathing heavily. Molly cherished the moment but once he slid out of her, she quickly got to her feet.

“I should, um, go clean up…”

He waved her away, his eyelids already drooping.

She escaped to the bathroom. By the time she came back out, wrapped in her robe, Sherlock was asleep. She considered waking him but decided that leaving him there was the better option. _It’s not the coward’s way out,_ she told herself as she grabbed his grey afghan and gently covered him with it. The last thing she did before heading upstairs was locking the sitting room door. _He’ll thank me in the morning._

_I hope._


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock woke to a stiff neck and a pounding head. The early morning light made him squint as he looked around the sitting room, utterly confused, then he looked down at himself. It all came rushing back and he groaned quietly. _What the hell was I thinking? We were too drunk, I never should have asked if she wanted to. Hopefully, she won’t remember. I wish I didn’t._

_No, that’s a lie._ He got up, wincing as his headache worsened, and he stumbled naked to his bedroom. _I’ll never forget what it felt like to be with Molly, in her, but it can’t happen again. Not that it would, she certainly wouldn’t want a repeat performance._ He donned his grey dressing gown and grabbed his clothes then went into the bathroom.

One long shower later, he felt nearly human again. Once he was dressed in black trousers and a white dress shirt, he put the dressing gown back on then left the bathroom, only to run into Molly.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” she said, not meeting his eyes. She wore her robe and had her clothes under one arm. “Bathroom’s free?”

“Yes, but-”

She was in the room and had shut the door before he could get another word out. He considered trying to talk to her through the door but dismissed the idea as juvenile. When he tried to open the sitting room door, he found it locked.

_Molly must have done it when she went to bed. At least one of us was thinking._ He unlocked the door with the key from his pocket then headed for the kitchen.

* * *

By the time Molly forced herself to stop hiding in the bathroom, the smell of breakfast greeted her. Her growling stomach won over her aching heart and she dutifully headed for the kitchen, unable to even glance at Sherlock’s chair on the way. She found Sherlock himself in the middle of making a full English breakfast.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she said conversationally as she sat down at the kitchen table.

He didn’t turn around but she heard him chuckle. “My mother insisted that both of her sons learn, I simply prefer to have other people do it for me.”

“Lazy,” she said fondly, she couldn’t help it.

Sherlock chuckled again as he filled two plates with what smelled like lovely fried food then he carried both of them to the table, setting one in front of her. She was spared from his scrutiny for a moment while he made them both coffee, setting hers, made just the way she liked, in front of her before he sat down across from her.

“Molly-”

“No, Sherlock,” she said firmly.

“We have to talk about last night.”

“No, we don’t.” She sighed quietly. “Look, we both consented, it happened, it’s over. Let’s just chalk it up to too much wine and leave it at that.” She started on her eggs and pointedly looked at his plate, willing him to take the hint.

He stared at her for a moment before silently eating. She could feel the wounded pride coming off him in waves but she refused to do anything about it. _It’s better if we just both forget it happened, even if he did ruin my chances of ever being satisfied with another man again. No, I must be strong. We’re better off as just friends._

It wasn’t until they were halfway done eating that he spoke again. “Thank you for the afghan and for locking the door.”

She shut her eyes, not wanting to talk about any part of the previous evening, then she decided it was a safe enough topic. Still, she didn’t look up from her plate. “You’re welcome. I wanted to spare you and Mrs. Hudson a really awkward moment.”

He nodded. “She probably still heard us.”

“Sherlock-” She looked up to see his eyes dancing as he grinned at her. Molly felt herself grinning back but then she turned back to the food and wolfed down what was left. “I need to get going, I’m shopping with Meena today. She’s a marathon shopper so I’ll need all these calories to keep me going, so thanks.”

“Molly-”

“I’ll probably end up staying at her place tonight,” she said as she stood up, “so don’t wait up for me. Bye, Sherlock.” She left the room, willing herself not to look back.

* * *

“You’re mad,” Meena declared over lunch that afternoon.

After dodging questions over her “just been royally shagged” look all morning, Molly had finally given in and told the whole story at their favorite restaurant.

“Utterly mad,” Meena continued. “The hottest man I know you’ve ever met shagged you silly and you just walked away?”

“We were drunk,” Molly protested. “He never would’ve touched me if we were both sober.”

“How can you be so sure? He was sober when he came to get you and by the look on his face, I’d say he was _very_ interested.”

“Yeah?” Molly muttered. “Well, that’s when I was wearing my ‘look at my boobs’ bra. By the time I took it off, he was three sheets to the wind, so how I actually looked didn’t matter.” _I mean, yes, he said my breasts are beautiful, but he was drunk and horny, he would’ve said anything, right?_

“Fine, if you won’t take him, then I will.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at her friend. _Does she mean that or is she just trying to make me jealous?_ Meena’s raised eyebrow gave her no indication, but then she remembered that Meena preferred men her own age. _Jealous it is, then. And it’s bloody working, dammit._ “Fine, I’ll go home, but just to set the record straight.”

“Whatever you say, Molly,” Meena said, smirking.


	13. Chapter 13

Mrs. Hudson met Molly at the door. “Hello, Molly, dear. Sherlock just left for Heathrow but he asked me to give this to you.” She handed her a folded note, grinning. “For a man who loves to text, he can be charmingly old fashioned sometimes, can’t he?”

Molly couldn’t help blushing as she accepted the note. “That he can, Mrs. Hudson. Um, last night, did we-”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Not to worry, dear – I’ve been wearing earplugs to bed since Sherlock moved in.”

She stared at her. “Then how did you know-”

The older woman grinned. “I know a guilty look when I see it. I’m happy for you both and I expect a wedding invite within the next year and grandtenants within the next two.”

Blushing brightly, Molly could only nod. “Um, thanks. See you later, Mrs. Hudson.” She then raced up the stairs and settled on the couch in the sitting room before unfolding the note.

_Molly,_

_I just received an urgent request for help from the French government. The last thing I wanted to do was leave when we have so much to discuss, but it can’t be helped. Last night meant a great deal to me, more than I can say in a quick note. I’ll call you as soon as I can._

_Sherlock_

She wanted to clutch the note to her chest like some overwrought Victorian heroine but settled for refolding it and setting it on the coffee table. _Maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for us yet._

* * *

It was after midnight before Sherlock had a chance to call Molly. He had just taken a shower and had settled on the bed in his hotel suite with just a towel wrapped around his waist and his back against the headboard.

Molly answered on the first ring. “Hi, Sherlock.”

_She’s nervous._ He smiled softly. “Hello, Molly. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, I was just getting ready for bed.” There was a pause and he could hear her mattress as she moved on the bed and he imagined her position mirrored his. “I got your note. Did … did you really mean it?”

Sherlock grinned. “I did, I do.” His free hand ached to touch her but he settled for lightly rubbing his towel-covered thigh. “Why did you leave, Molly?” he asked softly.

“I was scared,” she admitted quietly.

“Of me?”

“No, never. I … I thought you only wanted me because you were drunk and I couldn’t bear the idea that you would reject me once you sobered up.”

“Oh, Molly,” Sherlock sighed. “If you had stayed, I would have taken you again in the morning. To be quite honest, I would take you now if you were here with me or if I were there with you.”

There was a pause then she murmured, “What’s stopping you?”

He chuckled. “The English Channel? The fact that teleportation only exists in science fiction?”

“Sherlock,” she murmured, amused, “have you ever had phone sex?”

“No,” he admitted softly. “Is that bad?”

“Not at all,” she assured him gently. “Would you like to?”

Sherlock chuckled again. “Molly, darling, nine times out of ten, most men will accept any offer of sex.”

“And the tenth time?” Her grin was audible.

“The tenth time, they’re still recovering from the other nine.”

She giggled. “Right. So … not to be cliched, but what are you wearing?”

“Nothing but a towel around my waist,” he said, grinning. “I had just stepped out of the shower when I called you.”

She squealed happily. “I take it that means your hair is slicked back and water’s still dripping down your front. What color is the towel?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Royal blue. And to answer your next question, it’s wide enough to cover me from my waist to just above my knees. Now, what about you?”

Molly groaned quietly. “I wish I was wearing something sexier, but it’s the blue pajamas with the fluffy white sheep all over them.”

“Even the cutest sleepwear is sexy, Molly, when you’re in it.” He pictured her easily and damned the French for not having better security for their precious Renaissance portrait. _I should be with her._ “Are you wearing knickers?”

“Nope,” she murmured. “I should probably take the bottoms off, I’m getting wet already.”

“Please do,” he murmured, grinning.

“The top too?”

“Is it long enough to cover you?”

“Almost.”

He grinned wider. “Then leave it for now.”

There was a pause then she murmured, “Okay, pajama bottoms are off. Sherlock?”

“Yes, love?” he asked, grinning in anticipation.

“Lose the towel.”

He chuckled as he set the phone down before getting up and taking off the towel then tossing it onto the floor before getting back into bed and grabbing the phone. “There, I’m now in nothing but my birthday suit.”

She giggled. “You do look best in a suit.”


	14. Chapter 14

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” Sherlock murmured.

Molly sighed softly at the thought of his kisses. “So do I. I’d ask how the case is going but I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

He chuckled. “A wise decision.” After a moment, he murmured, “Unbutton your top, but only that.”

She unbuttoned her pajama top with her free hand, smiling to herself. “Next time, we should consider Skyping. There, it’s done.”

There was silence for a moment. “To me, that would feel less like making love and more like a performance.”

Her breath caught at “making love” but she tried not to get her hopes up. _Yes, he’s called me “darling” and “love,” but he hasn’t actually said that he loves me. Some people toss around that word like it’s nothing._ Her conscience reminded her that Sherlock wasn’t like that but she ignored it. “Even if it’s just me you’re performing for?” she murmured, her tone gently teasing.

“Even then,” he murmured. “I can wait to see you until I can hold you. Can you do the same?”

She smiled softly. “When you put it like that, yes.” She closed her eyes as she imagined him there in the room with her. “You’re so beautiful.”

Sherlock chuckled softly. “I believe that is my line, Molly.”

She blushed happily as she opened her eyes again. “Thank you. But you are beautiful, Sherlock. At times, you look like someone from a different era.”

“Are you calling me old now?” he asked, his grin audible.

Molly grinned. “Never. Just … maybe someone born in the wrong era. You’re so sophisticated.”

“Thank you, darling,” he murmured, “but if I had been born in another era, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“A tragedy,” she teased gently.

“Actually, yes.” He sounded serious, certainly more than someone merely having phone sex.

Molly sat up straighter, both hands clutching her phone. “Sherlock?” she whispered.

“Oh, Molly,” he murmured, his tone wistful. “I have so much to tell you as soon as I walk in the door.”

“Can you tell me anything now?”

“Last night…” He sighed softly. “Last night meant everything to me. It was the culmination of everything between us since-”

“Since I moved in?” she asked softly.

“No, darling – since we met.”

She sighed happily. “Since we’re being honest-”

“Is that what we’re doing?” he asked, his tone gently teasing.

“Mmm-hmm. Since we’re being honest, last night was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, the bar has certainly been set.” He sighed softly. “The feeling of my hand on my manhood cannot compete with yours.”

She grinned. “Did you really just call it your ‘manhood?’ Have you been reading my bodice-rippers?”

He groaned overdramatically. “For the record, yes, but only to see what interests you. And what word would you prefer I use? ‘Penis’ is out of the question – this isn’t a medical textbook.”

“‘Cock’ works for me,” she murmured. “Yours especially.”

“Mmm. Molly, darling, if this case takes much longer, I’m going to pay to have you come over.”

She grinned. “Then you’d never solve the case because you’d be too busy doing me to do anything else.”

Sherlock chuckled. “You do have a point. As I was saying, your small, strong hands are exactly what I need wrapped around my cock.”

She imagined him in bed with her, watching him stroke himself. “What about my lips? You know, I never thought of a cock could be mouth-watering until I saw yours.”

A small, strangled sound came from her flatmate-turned-lover. “I-I would never presume-”

“Sherlock,” she murmured, “I want to. That hasn’t been true with every guy I’ve been with, but it’s true with you. When you get back, we’ll do all the things we’re talking about and more.”

“I would like nothing better,” he murmured. “Anything you’re willing to do with me, Molly, I will greatly appreciate.”

“Mmm, now I’m getting ideas. But in the meantime, imagine it’s my hand on you.”

“Easily done since I’ve imagined it many times before.” The grin in his voice was audible then his voice dropped to a deep, sexy purr. “But I’m not about to leave you out of this. Stroke your clit for me, Molly – slow and languid. Imagine it’s me and that we have all day.”

She held her phone with one hand, the other moving between her legs. The first touch of her swollen clit had her hips bucking as she imagined they were his fingers. “Oh God, Sherlock…”

He chuckled softly. “You sound as wrecked as I feel, love.” He let out a strangled “Fuck!” and she imagined he was getting close. “Damn this case,” he muttered. “I should be home, in your arms.”

She circled her clit with her thumb as she slipped a finger into her dripping opening. “Mmm, yes, you should…” A quick mental run-through of her schedule for the week made up her mind. “I’m taking the week off, I’ll come to you.”

“No need, I’ll … oh God … I’ll solve this case within the next … God … forty-eight hours...”

She imagined him on the brink of release. “I need you, Sherlock,” she murmured. “More than I’ve ever needed anyone.”

He cried out what she thought was her name and the image that accompanied the sound nearly had her coming herself. Once he caught his breath, he murmured, “How many fingers, Molly?”

“One right now.”

“Make it two, move them slowly. I think I can hear them.”

She blushed at indeed how audibly wet she was and his satisfied tone. “Yes, Sherlock, you’ve made me incredibly wet,” she murmured. “Happy?”

He chuckled. “Deliriously, darling. Put your phone to your shoulder so you can use both hands.”

Molly did as instructed, holding her shoulder with her phone while both hands worked to bring her to the release she craved.

“Come for me, my love,” he murmured. “Let yourself fall, I’m right here to catch you.”

Just as she’d always secretly known it could, his voice was enough to send her over the edge. Molly saw stars as she came, though barely any sound escaped her. When she fully came back to herself, she grabbed the phone. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” he murmured, sounding as exhausted as she felt.

“Come home soon,” she murmured.

“I’ll be home before you know it,” he promised.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end. Thank you, readers. You're the best.

Sherlock nervously ran a hand through his hair as he looked up in the direction of the sitting room from where he was in 221B’s foyer. _Why am I nervous? It’s Molly. We’ve known each other for years._

 _You know exactly why you’re nervous, little brother,_ replied Mycroft’s voice in his head. _You’re in love with her and you want to marry her._

He couldn’t argue with that.

Mrs. Hudson came into the hall, smirking. “Well, young man?”

“Well what?” Sherlock replied, wanting nothing more than to be upstairs.

“Are you going to propose or not?”

He smirked. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but you’re not my type.”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “To Molly, you daft boy.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Soon, I promise. Possibly even tonight.”

His landlady held out her hand expectantly. He pulled the ring box out of his jacket pocket then laid it in her hand, grinning. Completely serious, she opened the box and assessed the ring.

“I assume you got her an opal ring because it’s her birthstone, not something you picked at random.”

He nodded. “She loves them. Well? Does it pass muster?”

Mrs. Hudson grinned as she gave him back the box. “She’ll love it. I’m going to turn in early tonight, make as much noise as you want.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks warm. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Her chuckles followed him as he carried his suitcases up the stairs. He deposited the bags in his bedroom then walked into the sitting room.

Molly dozed on the couch and he debated whether or not to wake her. Finally, he settled on gently picking her up then sitting on the couch with her across his lap. She nuzzled his shoulder and he held her closer, one hand coming up to lightly stroke her hair.

After a while, she lifted her head and looked at him bleary-eyed before grinning. “You’re home!”

Sherlock chuckled. “So I am. What would you-”

She cut off his words with a kiss, which he was more than happy to return. When they both needed air, she smirked. “I see the Mona Lisa is back where it belongs.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I never told you which painting was stolen.”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out – the Louvre announced the painting was undergoing scientific tests just before you left, then they announced it was back on display this morning. The French government wasn’t about to admit the most famous painting in the world was stolen, again.”

He grinned. “That will teach me not to keep anything from you. To that end…” He took a deep breath as he pulled the ring box out of his trouser pocket. “I’d get down on one knee but I find I prefer having you in my lap.” He flicked open the box with his thumb, revealing the antique ring – an opal surrounded by diamonds.

Molly stared at the ring then at him. “Sherlock…” Tears welled in her eyes.

“I love you, Molly,” he murmured before kissing her forehead. “I don’t know when it happened, maybe it started the day we met, but I know it’s real and above everything, I know I want it to last.” He gently pressed his forehead to hers. “Marry me, Molly Hooper. Please?”

She smiled through her tears. “Sherlock Holmes, begging? I never thought I’d see the day.”

He laughed weakly. “Yes, yes, I’m a proud, superior bastard. I’m also a man desperately in love and in need of an answer. So, my darling, are you going to put me out of my misery?”

Molly grinned. “I don’t know, maybe I like having you on tenterhooks.”

Sherlock growled softly and was pleased to see her shiver. “Molly…”

She kissed the tip of his nose. “I do love you, you know. I love your theatrics and your superior attitude, your fastidiousness, and how good you look in those suits.” She smiled softly. “I love how you turn shy at unexpected times and how you can read me like a book.” She softly kissed his lips. “I love how you can turn me on with a glance and how your voice is a lethal weapon. I love your eyes, your hair, your face, and your body. I especially love your big heart, Sherlock.”

“It’s yours,” he whispered, awed at her declaration.

“I want to be your wife. I want to take your name and have babies with you and be so in love that none of our friends can stand it.”

He gazed at her. “You really are a wonder, Margaret Anne Hooper.”’

She murmured, “Take me to bed, Sherlock Holmes.”

He picked her up and proceeded to do just that.


End file.
